


she’s a bombshell blonde, wired up to detonate!

by thebetterbina



Category: Pocket Mortys, Rick and Morty
Genre: All Character's Are 18, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Other, Strippers & Strip Clubs, also idk some of Evil Morty's secret service guards i guess, i don't kow what happening, im also a mess! nothing is surprising anymore!, is that how we're tagging it, mortycest - Freeform, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 23:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13177863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: Whine of a tone is silenced as abrupt press of lips come both sudden and welcoming, there’s the wanton urge to deepen it further as arms wrap around the tilted head and mesh of lips becomes a more ardent dance as tongues meet with the clash of candied sweetness from lollipops and biting sting of heavy liquor. The mixture has tingles sending delightful shivers at the realization that the stiff President was a surprisingly good kisser. Yet he’s the first to part, mewl of tepid dissatisfaction from Mia with a single trail of saliva the only indication of their previous act of blissful sin.The curve of his mouth is that of a smirk, captivating eyes with a ghosting trail of breath that has Mia shiver in anicipation she doesn't think she can hold.They say there's a dimension where a Rick owns Miami, and a Morty dominates the stage.The President, can only hold curiosity for so long.





	she’s a bombshell blonde, wired up to detonate!

**Author's Note:**

> Another oneshot because I'm thriving for the Evil Morty/Miami Morty goodness! Honestly inspired by my dearest friend Miles/Morty and our roleplay threads please gift me the sweet release of death I'm about the same as a Meeseeks right now.
> 
> This poor little fic was just kinda?? Sitting waiting to be posted so I decided to post it!
> 
> Inspired by Bombshell Blonde by Owl City, definetely give it a recommendation since it's so upbeat and wiLD.
> 
> Important note!! I'll be using female pronouns for our pretty little Miami Morty (who has the affectionate name of Mia). Also the viewpoints change around alot I think?? Like I have an issue with that but it shouldn't affect the flow of the fic too much. I've also never actually been to a strip club so ... nyall gonna have to educate me if I get anything wrong. 
> 
> May have gotten the stutter wrong?? Who knos!
> 
> I'm still a human who makes mistakes, so feel free to correct me in the comments if you see any!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_That blonde, she's a bomb, she's an atom bomb._  
_Rigged up, and ready to drop!_  
_Bad news, I'm a fuse, and I've met my match._  
_So stand back, it's about to go off!_

 

 

Strobe lights blind to the beat of a thumping club rhythm and Mortimer finds himself in deftly hidden awe and wonder for the place, varying hues of pink and undertones of warm blue illuminate the otherwise dim room. It’s as if he’s regressed to softer days of complacent youth, where curiosity ran rampant like that of a child having discovered a new playground.

Tables, he notes, some pushed back with individual partitions and others littered around something akin to the main stage with a single pole as the centerpiece. He notes the exists, _a habit from having to always run at the drop of trouble_ , he notes the extensions of the club to where more exclusive members were probably given access. Ice buckets and differing bottles of liquor are found at arm's width, yet there’s a certain minimalistic appeal the backdrop has to the colours that make the room less suffocating as he thought he’d have to expect.

He’s bodily ushered to the front, one of his security details now dressed rather casually, to where strangers go wild with their money, shots and champagne. Choice of whiskey is discreetly slipped into his view and he feels almost thankful until he notes how they _hover_.

 

“Go on, enjoy yourselves, I only asked to be brought here. Not guarded.”

 

They hesitate awhile, almost a typical response now, never actually having used to such lax way of hold. Though it only takes mild hand movements indicating them to _shoo_ that the idea is solidified. He came here of his own volition, and he can take care of himself just fine.

As is said: curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. His curiosity? The fact he overheard some Rick’s and Morty’s actively discussing visiting a very  **specific** dimension. The satisfaction? Getting to sit through a performance to see what got others so nettled on about, he recalls the conversation with a certain fondness.

 

_“Sounds fun, so when’s the class trip?”_

_“M-mister President s-sir! W-w-we had no idea y-you were listening and-”_

_“Don’t act so stiff, it’s not like I can control how you spend your days off right? But do continue - I’m interested now.”_

 

He steadies as the music changes, signalling the start of the main performance as stage lights focus to where a single figure had emerged.  
  
And the crowd goes absolutely **wild**.

It's amazing really, how quickly some are to throw their cash to the favoured dancer without them even having lifted a finger. _Like a cult of the fanatic kind_ , he thinks, the audience are a steady count of both men and women who have fervent adoration written across their cheering faces and wooing cries. He doesn't blame them, if he's able to run a whole Citadel, who's to say a version of him can't command any kind of crowd.

The press around him is real, bodies disregarding their neighbours and only favouring their attention to the sole person on stage. It’s a mess in all honesty, not that pleasing to have sweaty bodies packed as sardines with screaming from each direction. Why was he at the front again? Ah, right, a Rick had noted how it was the best place to view any performance. Of course he had to think it was a nice idea at the time, but he relents to the distasteful way of thought and instead directs his own attention back to the individual just in the midst of a prep.

 

The dancer is a Morty.

 

 

 _That vixen, she's a master of disguise!_  
_I see danger, when I look in her eyes._  
_She's so foxy, she could lead to my demise,_  
_so I'm running, cause I've run out of time._

 

 

Lush blonde hair, he first notices, pulled back and glitter almost expertly applied to give the impression of a star dusted blush on features that aimed to be sweetly angelic - despite the environment being anything but ethereal. Clothes worn are poor excuses of cloth, thin, light, any movement only causing more skin to be exposed. The performer has a lithe physique, a clear contrast to his own that fills out edges in suits and atypical to usual Morty’s that still develop some muscle definition after reaching puberty. Something he doesn’t question however, already knowing some Morty’s that go to lengths to reach levels of individuality from their alternate dimensional selves - attaining _androgyny_ is probably one of them. Finishing touch are the heels, monstrous things that did their job in accentuating the curve of a delicate ankle. 

Sensual is the way to describe the dance as it begins, the curve of an arm or arch of back shows a sense of enticement in the art itself. A type of seduction without touch. He's mesmerized to say the least, and understands what people would come back here for. He notes the enjoyment in eyes and broad smile with the progressing crescendo of the crowd; as if there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with the provocative twist of hips, or the way legs spread with inviting wink of glitter dusted lashes and twinkling set of iridescent blue hues that only sparkle in their mischief.

So when the dancer, the jewel of the show and club, catches his eyes they enter a standstill. Milliseconds that seem to stretch into minutes before a sly little grin is given his way, and he returns with a raise of glass. An _acknowledgement_ , he’s there within his own reason - and there wasn’t any dimension that didn’t know of the Morty President of the Citadel.

The music comes to its climax, and the Morty on stage comes a little closer to the crowd, the ardent need of the people nearby to even touch the stage has reached an unbearable peak. Then he notes the money, notes of the bigger kind being slipped into clothing where the barest touch would allow.  Some getting a little more touch than what was allowed, yet the dancer takes it all in strides and simple wag of fingers. Of course, he pays his own due, a single toned arm reaches to where the snag of shorts sat and he lets fingers glide, slipping a single crisp hundred and purposefully giving a tug until two sets of the same eyes meet once more among the roar of the crowd.

 

He’s almost tempted to let hand _roam_ , but the dancer retreats, with the horde still screaming for more.

 

 

 **_She’s a bombshell blonde, wired up to detonate!_ **  
_I’m James Bond, live to die another day!_

 

 

So he does the same, moving away, past the bodies that still bother to glue themselves to the stage and only pauses until a light tap on his shoulder brings attention back.

 

“E-enjoy the show?”

 

 _A Rick,_ definitely the performer’s Rick, questions with loose grin and toothpick in place. If the dancer was known as Miami Morty, then this was Miami Rick. There’s a familiar way he’s called _‘Morty’_ by those living outside of the Citadel he doesn’t particularly enjoy. Though he still graces the question with a loose shrug of shoulders, acting as if he’d seen better, that earns him a hearty laugh and pat on back.

 

“T-trust me, my Mia’s danced for aliens and she get can them feral.”  
  
“Mia?” 

“Eh, stage name, calling em’ ‘Morty’ doesn’t feel right. Anyways, to the back we go - spoiled little brat invites the, and I quote “most wonderful and righteous President of the utopian Citadel” for a little meet n’ greet.”

 

He’s guided past a set of guards, outsiders, humanoid aliens, hired, that give barest amounts of attention to them as they enter the closed off area of the nightclub. The other end is as sombre as the front counterpart, with darkened walls still giving hints of light from the main club room. Only a handful of doors are located along the quickly quietening corridors, props and dancer quarters if he were to guess, the furthest end stood one with absurd amount of decorations - from lipstick marks, glitter, studded crystals and fur. It’s enough to garner a questionable tilt of head.

 

“T-told you, a spoiled brat.” Yet there's no bite in the way he says it, more like a parent having failed to chastise a petulant child. The Rick gives a couple of knocks on the door, before turning to leave. “G-go ahead, enter, not like there’s going to be a response. I still have a club to see and assholes to punch from puking every-fucking-where.”

 

The terse advice is followed, door opened and waft of flower-sweet fragrances permeate the room overpowering the dull musk that settled over the humidity of the main club space. The room itself isn’t exactly opulent, but enough so it still gave an of comfort to the person who lived in it, a sofa sits off to a side, simple table with variation of opened and still closed gifts, fully lit long table with assortment of makeup strewn about, television, partition and wardrobe with another door he assumed led to the bathroom

 

“Take a seat mister bigwig, I’ll change into something a little more decent, make yourself at home.”

 

Voice is heard from behind the partition, not as deep as he’d have expected, more akin to toiling tinkling little bells to signify another atypical trait of the Morty. There’s faint movement and rustling of clothes behind the partition as he seats himself on the velvet red plume of sofa. Attention is drawn instead to the table, where chocolates, flowers, clothing, bags and shoes could be seen from half opened boxes. Letters, some opened, some untouched lay in hazardous pile that seemed to loom with understanding a _celebrity_ didn’t always have to be on TV. He spots a choice bottle of Champagne, the top is popped and a glass for himself poured.

 

“Oh, and thanks for the tip, I’ll make sure to get something nice with it.”

 

A body joins his, seated and clothed with simple singlet and shorts, the make up still there to give the effect of a reckless wild youth instead of the salacious dancer that had been on the stage just moments before. It's no real improvement, but better than being completely naked.

 

“People tip when they enjoy a service don’t they?”

“You speak! And here I thought all that mouth was good for were speeches.”

“They can do plenty more.”

 

Titillating grin all the more returned, and the distance between two bodies is diminished as Mia makes a go to straddle the Citadel leader who only humours with an equally goading smile. There’s a tension from unsaid words and burn with the aggravating thought skin on skin enjoyment was halted only because of a few pieces of fabric stood in the way. Palms move to cup his face, tanned body contrasting to his own paler hue and much supple fingertips to his more calloused ones.

 

“Now you have me curious mister President, I hope you’re intending to satiate curiosity?”

“I’ll do my best.”

 

Lissom touches comparable to summer petals have him pliant, their faces ghosting inches apart, warm breath and -

The shrill cry of his interdimensional phone breaks the atmosphere.

 

“Oh come on, _really_?”

 

Phone is slipped into firmer grip in a single motion and curt, brusque voice cuts through the other end with only placid nature in place of seeping annoyance, “What’s the matter?”

 

 

_“We have a situation, sir.”_

 

 

He holds back a sigh, the day Mortimer had a day of peace would be the day the Citadel ended in flames again and he was usurped as leader. He’s almost glad how easily Mia slides off of him, albeit vexed if the pouting we’re anything to go by but complaint to an extent, space is given to straighten self.

 

“I hope you realize I’m _annoyed_.”

“Visit the Citadel, I can promise no interruptions there.”

“Ugh I hate the Citadel and -”

 

Whine of a tone is silenced as abrupt press of lips come both sudden and welcoming, there’s the wanton urge to deepen it further as arms wrap around the tilted head and mesh of lips becomes a more ardent dance as tongues meet with the clash of candied sweetness from lollipops and biting sting of heavy liquor. The mixture has tingles sending delightful shivers at the realization that the **stiff** President was a surprisingly _good_ kisser. Yet he’s the first to part, mewl of tepid dissatisfaction from Mia with a single trail of saliva the only indication of their previous act of blissful sin. 

The curve of his mouth is that of a smirk, captivating eyes with a ghosting trail of breath that has Mia shiver in anicipation she doesn't think she can hold.

 

 

“There’s more where that came from.”

 

 

 _Bombshell blonde, high explosive dynamite!_  
**_She’s all I want so_ ** **_I’m on a mission tonight!_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Might post another, but I might make separate onshots as part of a series??????
> 
> Had fun? I run an Evil Morty Tumblr Roleplay blog over at [@noricks](http://noricks.tumblr.com/), come say hi!
> 
> Alternatively I have my personal Tumblr over at [@templaris](http://templaris.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Leave some kudos to motivate me! Leave a comment to make me cry, in a good way!


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